Of Doctors, Detectives, and Christmas Cheer
by cjnwriter
Summary: I am once again participating in Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Expect much randomness, awesomeness, and Christmas cheer!
1. Dec 1

**December 1: Sherlock Holmes finds himself in the future. Can the man who was ahead of his time still solve the crime now that he's more than a century behind? (from Lucillia)**

**A/N: Right, so lets start this challenge out with some bizarre sci-fi, shall we? *Rubs hands together***

**Prepare for some randomness. Also, it's way longer than I ever could have anticipated.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes lay still, his heart hammering in his chest.

Where was he? He hadn't the faintest idea. He seemed to be lying on his back, on some squishy, dampish surface.

Who was he? He wasn't sure of that either, but the name "Sherlock Holmes" registered vaguely in his mind.

He opened his eyes, and squinted when they were assailed by a bright light. He put his hand in front of his face to shield himself from the light.

"Hey you!" came a female voice somewhere to the left of his head. "Are you all right?"

"I—I'm fine," he replied unsteadily, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I think I'm fine, anyhow."

He looked around himself. There were trees, and grass, and a walking path to his left. There were several people standing on it, all wearing strange and rather brightly colored clothing. The girl, a short red-haired teenager, who had spoken to him approached him as he rose to his feet and brushed some damp grass off of his trousers.

"Well, we saw you fall from the sky, so I just thought I'd ask," she said.

"Fall…fall from the sky?" said Holmes uncertainly. "How extraordinary." He paused. "Would you mind telling me, where am I?"

"Regent's Park," the girl replied. "What's with the fancy getup, anyhow?"

Holmes glanced down at his clothes, bewildered. "It's what I always wear. But…this can't be Regent's Park, I know Regent's Park, and it looks quite different. I was just…"

He trailed off as he suddenly remembered the events leading up to that moment.

"Are you absolutely certain you will not investigate, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked his brother as they sat across from each other in Mycroft's sitting room.

"I am completely sure," the younger Holmes replied cooly. "I do not deal with matters of a supernatural nature. My profession adheres strictly to things of this world, and I would prefer it remain that way."

"I beg you to reconsider. No one else dares go near the house. The locals claim that it is haunted, or that the evil one himself resides there. Our best people cannot explain the things that have been going on there, but you, Sherlock have the brains and the ambition to figure it out. I have little doubt that there is a rational explanation, but the others are too blinded by their fear of the place to see it."

"_You_ go then," Sherlock replied angrily. "I wish to have nothing to do with the matter."

Two days later, Sherlock Holmes found himself walking by the building in question, the site of eleven unexplained disappearances in the past eleven days, one each day. The building in question, a rather run-down, four storey building with nothing particularly special in its appearance, stood quietly on a corner. The people walking by kept their distance, many casting fearful glances in its direction, as though they feared an attack from the building itself.

He slowed to a stop as he was about to pass the building, and turned on his heel, back in the direction he had come, staring curiously up at the building. He had point blank refused to become involved no less than six times, but yet…

Curiosity filled every fiber of his being and he slowly strode up to the front of the building, almost in a trance. He vaguely heard a voice with a thick Cockeny accent shout, "Somebody stop 'im! Tha's suicide, goin' in that buildin'!"

No one stopped him.

Holmes scrutinized the doorframe. There were several scratches, which seemed to indicate that a bulky object had been dragged through some time before, and a newer dent near the ground from being bumped by the end of a cane.

"Excuse me, sir," came a voice behind him, "but what might you be doing?"

He turned to see a police constable, by the name of John Tyler.

Tyler looked surprised. "Why, it's you, Mr. Holmes! My apologies, I didn't know you were coming."

"It's quite all right," Holmes replied. "Neither did I."

Tyler looked vaguely puzzled for a moment, but apparently decided to think nothing of the somewhat odd statement. "Well, I'll let you do your investigating, then. Good luck."

"Thank you," Holmes replied curtly, and returned to his examination of the doorframe.

Something was afoot here, something quite out of the ordinary. He could feel it in his bones. There was something different about this place, something drawing him in.

He shook his head. Quite impossible. His mind was playing tricks on him.

He pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges as he did so. He walked slowly, his firm footsteps echoing slightly.

This building had belonged to a group of shoemakers, who practiced their trade here until they went broke two months previously. They had left very little behind when they had left, so there was not much to be seen there.

Holmes ascended the stairs, examining the railings with interest as he did so. Four stairs before the top, he heard a noise that made him stop in his tracks. A strange, buzzing sound that he couldn't think of an explanation for.

The detective continued more slowly than before, walking so that his feet made no sound. He even breathed more quietly.

A mounting tension rose within him, and sweat formed on his brow as he stepped off of the final step and onto the hardwood floor.

He took a step forward.

The buzzing intensified.

He took another step, with the same result.

He took a third, and the buzzing filled his ears, making his head pound.

He took one more step, and suddenly the buzzing changed, no longer incomprehensible, but into words, words that did not seem to come form anywhere or have any specific volume, but seemed to be coming from some outside source into his mind itself.

_One more step, you're nearly through  
This task I now set before you.  
You shall go to a time  
Long after this rhyme  
And find the one who is you._

_The twelfth one you are  
You shall travel so far.  
But you shall not feel fear;  
To the ones who are dear  
You shall return from afar._

_Sherlock Holmes, whom we sought  
His trust carefully bought,  
He shall go on today  
To seek his own way  
To solve the crime through thought._

_Good luck and godspeed,  
Your faith you will need.  
If you wish to live  
Your all you shall give  
In your pursuit of the seed._

As he heard the words, he had taken the last step forward, and suddenly could see nothing but bright light, and remembered nothing more until he awakened.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?" asked the short girl, waving her hand in front of his face. "You seem a little spacey."

"Yes, yes I'm fine," he replied, looking around again. The words he had heard before he arrived here echoed through his mind.

_You shall go to a time  
Long after this rhyme  
And find the one who is you._

"What year is it?" he asked suddenly.

"Twenty-thirteen," the girl replied, sounding somewhat exasperated. "What, are you from a different time?"

"Apparently, yes," he replied. "It was eighteen ninety-seven, when last I checked."

"Well then," she answered, with her eyebrows raised. "You know, I normally don't believe people like you, but when you're the twelfth in a line of twelve people, one each day at exactly the same time, all claiming to be from 1897, it's easier to believe." She frowned. "And I have other reasons too, to know it's true."

"What other reasons?" he asked.

"Sorry, I can't tell you that, at least not until I trust you. What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "And yours?"

"Samantha Tyson, but I usually just go by Sam. Hang on, did you just say you were _Sherlock Holmes_, as in the _detective_ Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, your hearing has not failed you, nor has your memory. That is precisely what I said."

"But…" Sam trailed off. "That's impossible. Sherlock Holmes is here, in this time. You can't be him, it's _impossible_." She shook her head. "There's been a lot of impossible lately, so I guess I can make myself believe this. Now come with me. I'm going to bring you to the others, the other people who appeared here."

After ten minutes of walking in awkward silence, they found themselves at Sam's parents' house. "They're both kind of crazy scientists," Sam explained as they walked in the door. "They study time and weird stuff happening, like people falling out of the sky for no particular reason. I don't understand most of it, but they say there's a pattern forming, and my dad told me yesterday that based on what he's seen, it will stop at twelve people."

Holmes nodded, though he didn't understand what was going on any more than Sam did.

"All right," said Sam, as they reached a door. "Everybody's in the living room, as far as I know. Try not to freak anyone out too much, they're all still pretty shell shocked from the whole falling-through-time-and-out-of-the-sky thing."

Holmes gave a curt nod, and Sam opened the door. The quiet talk that had been going on in the room ceased as soon as the door was opened. The comfortable sitting room held eleven people, all in what Holmes considered proper, normal clothing, and all looking shocked at Holmes's appearance.

"Oh my goodness, it's _Sherlock Holmes_," exclaimed a portly red-headed man on the couch.

"I am indeed he," Holmes replied, taking a somewhat uncertain step into the room.

"Did you hear a riddle too?" asked a young woman to Holmes's right. "Before you fell, I mean?"

"Yes, I heard a sort of riddle, or poem," he answered slowly.

"We all heard different riddles," she answered. "They all said that we were to watch for the twelfth person, and aid him in his search for 'himself and the seed'. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"No, I do not believe that I…wait," he said, turning to Sam. "Did you not say that there is a Sherlock Holmes in this time?"

"Yes, there is," she answered. "He's the only Sherlock Holmes I've ever heard of, before you. Come to think of it, he looks quite a lot like you, except younger, and the hair is…different."

"Where can I find him?" asked Holmes.

"Well, we could try his flat in Baker Street. It's 221b, if I remember right."

"Curious, that's my address as well," Holmes muttered.

A brunette girl, who appeared to be no older than twelve, collapsed into a chair and burst into tears. "This is really getting too bizarre. I just want to go _home_!" A middle aged woman hurried over to comfort the poor girl.

Holmes cast her a momentary pitying glance before looking back at Sam. "Well?" he asked. "We ought to get going."

"Going?" she said, looking bewildered for a moment as his words pulled her out of her reverie. "Oh, to see Sherlock. Yes, let's go, right now."

"Should we come as well?" asked a dark-haired man in his forties. "The riddle said we were to aid him."

"Sure, sounds good," Sam said after a moment's thought. "We'll have to walk, but it's not too far. Everyone up for a bit of fresh air?"

Everyone nodded, and the five people who were seated stood up, and they all made their way to the doorway.

"I'll lead the way," said Sam, and turned on her heel did just that.

A short while and many strange looks from passersby later, they reached the front door of 221b. Sam rang the doorbell, and a somewhat elderly woman answered the door.

"We're here to see Sherlock Holmes," said Sam.

The woman looked at the thirteen of them. "You are quite a group. I'm afraid I don't have enough tea made for all of you, but Sherlock is in, and John as well. Sherlock has been in a good enough mood, he'll probably see you. I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way," she added as she led them inside. "And a word of advice, try to be interesting, Sherlock does hate anything boring."

"We should have no trouble with that," said Sam. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly and headed up the stairs.

"Boys," came her voice from the next floor. "You've got quite a group of clients downstairs, who would like to see you."

"Send them up," a man's voice replied.

Mrs. Hudson reappeared a moment later, and beckoned them to follow her up the stairs.

They entered a very cluttered sitting room, which Holmes immediately recognized as being nearly the same as his own. There were two men in the room, a dark haired man with sharp cheekbones in a deep purple shirt sitting in one chair, and a light brown-haired man in a sweater sitting in another chair.

"I would offer you all seats, but I'm afraid we don't have enough," the dark haired man replied. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend Doctor John Watson."

Holmes gasped. The man Sherlock had referred to as Watson looked strikingly like his own Watson.

The gasp drew Sherlock's attention, and he stared at Holmes, as though he saw something in his face that surprised and almost scared him. He looked at all of the other people there, and the expression intensified.

"Oh. My. Goodness," Sherlock whispered.

"What is it?" asked John, looking at Sherlock, his face full of concern and confusion.

"I've seen all of these people before," Sherlock replied. "Every night for twelve nights I've had the same dream, and these people were in it, all except for you," he said, pointing at Sam.

"Yeah, figures," said Sam. "I'm not really with all of them, I just sort of ended up running into them, one at a time. It's a long story."

"Strange…" Sherlock muttered. "There was a riddle in my dream, about someone finding me, someone who would help me understand something, someone who 'is me', somehow." He stared at Holmes. "Who are you?"

Holmes paused. "This is going to sound strange, but I am Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded. "I believe you."

John stared from one to the other in bewilderment. "Hang on, _what?!_ How can he be Sherlock Holmes, _you're_ Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't worry, you're not the only one totally confused," said Sam. "This just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"In the riddle, I was told that I was to find the one who is me, solve a crime, and find a seed," said Holmes.

"I know about a seed," said Sherlock, looking surprised. "The day before I had the first dream, I was at the scene of a bank robbery, and there was almost no evidence, only a single sunflower seed."

"Only a sunflower seed…that is very strange," Holmes replied.

"But I solved the crime," Sherlock said. "I know who robbed the bank, and the police are attempting to find him right now. But he seems to have vanished without a trace."

"Not so," said a low male voice behind the whole group. They turned to look, and a man dressed head to foot in black save a long dark green cape, with a hood obscuring his face stood in the doorway. "I have not vanished, I am here. What's more, is I have gathered you all here."

"For what purpose?" asked Sherlock.

The man shrugged. "I was bored. Does anyone have coffeecake? I'm starving."

"Seriously, why go to all this elaborate work to gather people from 1897 here in Sherlock's flat in 2013?" asked Sam. "I mean, you had to make up, what, thirteen different limericks? And then transport twelve people through time to just the right moment so I would run into them, and then get us to somehow decide to come here? There are a lot easier things to do with your free time when you're bored."

"She's right," said Holmes. "Why have you done this?"

"See if you can discover the answer for yourself, Mr. Holmes, because I am not going to tell you. Goodbye, and good luck." He vanished into thin air.

Interestingly enough, this didn't shock anyone too much, as they had already been shocked enough that not much could do so anymore.

The hooded man reappeared a second later. "All right, all right, I'm not patient enough to wait around for you to figure it out on your own. I seriously brought you all here because I was bored. End of story. Who wants to go home now?"

"I know I do," said the brunette girl who had been so eager to do so earlier.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes," said Sherlock, shaking Holmes's hand.

Suddenly a loud rumbling noise began outside, and everything began to shake.

"Oh, and I also wanted to create a time paradox strong enough that it could bring about the end of the world," said the hooded man. "But that wasn't the main reason, mostly it was boredom."

"Who are you?" asked Holmes in a terrified and somewhat awestruck voice.

"Can't you guess?" asked the hooded man.

"Moriarty," said Sherlock and Holmes at the same time.

"Indeed," replied Moriarty.

"All right, now that that's cleared up, _is there any way to stop the apocalypse_?" asked John.

"No, not that I know of," answered Moriarty.

"Simply wonderful," John growled. "Now what do we do?"

"Sit tight, and wait for the eucatastrophe," Sam replied.

"The what?" replied Moriarty blankly.

"Eucatastrophe," replied Sam. "You know, when everything looks really really bad, and then something happens to turn it all around, and then there's a happy ending?"

"Well, it's not going to happen," he replied.

"Yes it is," answered Sam. "Right about…now!"

The earthquake stopped. Moriarty vanished.

"What just happened?" asked Holmes.

"Eucatastrophe," replied Sam.

"Yes, but _how_?" asked Sherlock.

"My parents," Sam replied. They invented a machine that automatically reverses the ill effects of a time paradox. I thought it was kind of weird at the time, but hey, it looks like it came in handy."

"Wow," said John.

"Wow," agreed Sherlock. "Well, this has been a wonderful time, but you guys should probably get back to your own time, 1897, was it?"

"Yes," replied Holmes.

"Lucky for you, I know somebody who can get you there," said Sherlock.

A strange sound filled the air, and a blue police box materialized in the corner of the sitting room. A man with long brown hair, dressed in a tan suit coat and red bow tie stepped out of the box.

"Hello," he said. "I'm the Doctor, and I'm going to take all of you back to your proper time. Come on in!"

"But…we're not all going to fit," said the dark haired middle-aged man.

"Don't worry," came the Doctor's voice. It's bigger on the inside."

They all cautiously followed him in. Sherlock and John looked in the door behind them.

"What is this place?" asked one of the girls.

"It's the TARDIS," the Doctor replied, as though that explained it. "Sherlock, close the door, please, then we'll be off!"

Sherlock closed the door behind them. They heard the strange sound again.

"All right, we should be in the right place," said the Doctor. He opened the door. "Yes, we're in the right place. Come on!"

They followed him out of the door, and found themselves in the room they had all vanished from.

"How did we get to the future in the first place?" asked a red-haired man.

"A rare link in space and time between two places," replied the Doctor. "Apparently Moriarty found it, and found a way to use it. I'll have to find out how." Once all of them were out of the TARDIS, the Doctor, got back in. "Now that you're all back where you should be, I had better get going. Good-bye!" He closed the door, and the TARDIS made its strange noise and disappeared again.

"This has easily been the strangest day of my life," observed Holmes. The others nodded.

They all made their way back to their respective homes, and never told a soul what had happened, since no one would believe them anyway.

**A/N: Hopefully you enjoyed that, to at least some degree. :)**

**(Also, everything from Sherlock and Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.)**


	2. Dec 2

**December 2: A client comes to 221B, but she's not looking for Holmes. (from Book Girl Fan)**

**A/N: Holmes's POV.**

* * *

It was fairly early, a quarter to seven in the morning, in fact, when there was a ring at the front door.

"CAN YOU PLEASE ANSWER THAT, MRS. HUDSON?" I shouted, not looking up from the Times and taking a swig of coffee.

"HOLMES, I _TOLD_ YOU TO QUIT SHOUTING AT HER ACROSS THE FLAT LIKE THAT!" came Watson's voice down the stairs leading to his bedroom.

"MY APOLOGIES," I returned.

"I'm going to the door, Mr. Holmes!" came Mrs. Hudson's rather irritated voice from the kitchen. "And then see if I don't burn your toast today!"

"SORRY!" I replied. Eh, why did I even bother? What did I care about the toast anyway…

A minute later I heard a young woman speaking to Mrs. Hudson, but I couldn't quite make out the words, not that I was putting forth too much effort on that front. She was a client, no doubt, and I would learn soon enough what the reason for her visit was.

The firm footsteps on the stairs and rustling of skirts in the doorway notified me of the arrival of the woman to the sitting room.

"You wish to see me?" I asked, still not looking up from my paper, for dramatic effect, of course; I was not still reading it.

"Your famous powers of observation would be helped if you would actually use your eyes, Mr. Holmes, and also stop assuming that the entire world revolves around you."

I looked up from my paper to see none other than Miss Mary Morstan standing before me.

After brief moment of shock, I replied, "I don't—"

"It's a figure of speech," she said, as though explaining something to a small child.

"I _know_ that!" I returned indignantly.

"I'm impressed," she answered dryly.

I heard the swift but slightly limping footsteps of Watson on the stairs behind me.

"Holmes, who the devil are you argu—Oh, Mary! I wasn't expecting you this early!"

Watson's tone changed so swiftly from exasperation to surprised sheepishness that it was actually rather comical.

I chuckled, and was slapped in the back of the head with what I discovered a moment later was one of the newspapers from the table behind me.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed.

"Keep starting arguments with Mary, and don't think I won't do that again," replied Watson in a warning tone.

Mary grinned and made a rather unladylike snorting noise, which she attempted to pretend was a cough.

"Actually, _she_ started this one," I answered.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"All right, I admit it!" she said, putting her hands up in a gesture of defeat. "I kind of started this one."

"'Kind of started'…I am sure I don't even want to know." My friend gave an exasperated sigh. "What am I going to do with you two?"

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing this. :)**


	3. Dec 3

**December 3: Write a story where Watson and Holmes bicker like they do in Robert Downy Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes movies. (from Galaxy1001D)**

**A/N: Here goes! Not quite in the same style RDJ and Jude Law do it, but it's good Holmes-Watson bickering all the same, I believe.**

* * *

I was so deeply engrossed in my writing up of the case of the previous week, that I didn't notice the horrible smell until it set me coughing and wheezing.

"Good heavens, Holmes!" I exclaimed, turning around to face my friend, who was seated on the floor at the other end of the room doing what appeared to be some sort of chemistry experiment. "What is that _smell_?!"

"An unfortunate and unforeseen byproduct of my attempts to determine something which I have been—" he broke off as he began coughing. "Goodness, that is rather horrid, isn't it?"

"That's an understatement if I ever heard one. This whole room reeks like burning unwashed socks, and pond scum or something of the sort, ugh." I waved my hand in front of my face in a vain attempt to cleanse the air before me. "Do you mind if I open a window before we both suffocate?"

Not waiting for a response, I took two steps over to the window and was about to open it when Holmes grabbed my arms and forced me away from the window. "Watson! It is dreadfully windy, and I don't know what effect that could have on the delicate balance of the solution!"

I shook him off of me. "Right now, I don't care about the delicate balance of anything, except perhaps the proper functioning of our lungs. I am opening that window."

I threw the window open before he could stop me, and stuck my head out into the frigid breeze outside. "Ah, that is _so_ much better," I sighed.

I heard a loud blast behind me, followed by several loud crashes in quick succession.

"WATSON, LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" Holmes shouted.

Cringing, I turned to gaze upon the state of the sitting room.

There was a black burn mark in the carpet where the chemistry equipment had been. The back legs of the chair sitting nearest the blast had been broken with the force. Soot, ashes, broken glass, and who knows what else rained down on everything in the room. Half of the pictures on the walls had fallen onto the floor, and the glass from the frames had broken.

"Oh dear," I muttered. A picture on the opposite wall hit the floor, causing both of us to cringe again.

"Now wait a minute!" I exclaimed defensively, as Holmes's words finally registered. "That was not _my_ fault! You would have had to open a window sooner or later anyway, or you would have killed us in that poisonous atmosphere!"

"That is not so!" he returned indignantly. "If you would have given it another minute or two, I'm sure it would have been stable enough for that gust of wind!"

"Really. Oh, I'm _sure_ it would have been," I replied with heated sarcasm. "Great, _now_ what are we going to do? I can't afford to replace chairs and carpet!"

"It's not _my_ fault you gamble away your life's savings, Watson! Your state of finance is not at all my problem."

"Well, this sitting room isn't mine either. You can explain to Mrs. Hudson what happened to it when she returns from her shopping. I'm going to find a change of clothes, and be conveniently out when she comes back! I am _done_ covering up for you, Holmes!" I said with vindictive cheerfulness.

"See here, Watson!" Holmes ejaculated authoritatively. "This is _our_ sitting room, and we are both going to deal with what has happened to it!"

"Are we now?" I shot back as I headed toward the stairs to my room. "Seems that every other time—what are we up to now? _Eighteen_, I believe—all _eighteen_ other times this has happened, you manage to just slip away, and leave me to clean up the mess and calm down our landlady. I dare you to deny it!"

"I don't just 'slip away', I had genuine business to attend to those times!" Holmes retorted defensively.

"Oh, all eighteen times, how very_ likely_," I answered, rolling my eyes. "And notice how I didn't even complain—"

"_That_ is a lie, and you know it!"

"Fine, I only complained a _little_—"

"Try all the time for nearly a _week_ afterward—"

"You _know_ you had it coming, Holmes!"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Yes it was, and stop trying to deny it!"

"Watson, will you please just calm down!"

"I will when you stop being so accusatory!" I folded my arms defensively. Holmes did the same.

We stared each other down for probably a full minute before Holmes threw his arms in the air in a gesture of defeat.

"Fine, Watson, you win! I admit it, it was my fault this time, and it was my fault the other seventeen times as well, and on a couple of those occasions I left the flat more to avoid the cleanup and Mrs. Hudson's wrath than any genuine reason. Are you happy now, Watson?"

"Not particularly," I replied honestly.

"Good Lord, man! What more do you _want_?!" exclaimed Holmes exasperatedly.

"For you to remain here long enough for the cleanup _and_ Mrs. Hudson's lectures, _and_ pay for the damage done to the carpet and the furniture."

"All right, I'll do it," said Holmes resignedly.

I grinned openly, no longer able to disguise the fact that I wasn't nearly as furious as I had pretended to be. I had been at first, but for most of the argument I had been only exasperated and rather peeved, and had only continued to act ready to march out of the flat and leave Holmes to his own devices, to prevent his doing so to me.

Holmes realized this at that moment, and scowled darkly at me. "Watson, you cunning scoundrel!"

My grin broadened. "Too late! You already promised you'd stay, _and _pay for the damage. You can't back out now!"

Holmes groaned and threw himself into his armchair, throwing a cloud of ash into the air. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"An awful mess, apparently!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from the doorway, causing both of us to start in surprise.

"Oh! Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaimed. "We didn't hear you coming."

"So I noticed," she replied dryly. "Doctor, you know how this goes. I'll grab both of you brooms and dustpans, and you can get started on the mess." She started down the stairs. "And you had better listen to Watson and not go sneaking off this time!"

Holmes turned to me. "How long was she standing there?"

I shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea, though I have a sneaking suspicion that she heard most of that argument."

"As do I, Watson."

Mrs. Hudson returned with the brooms, and our mission to clean the sitting room commenced.

* * *

**A/N: I wish them both luck with that endeavor. *Cringes commiseratively***

**Also, I don't know the first thing about chemistry, so if I said something stupid at the beginning, just ignore it. :)**


	4. Dec 4

**December 4: Lestrade passes off a fruitcake on Holmes (from Wordwielder)**

**A/N: Watson's POV**

* * *

We were returning to our flat from a morning of (rather cold) investigation, and I was relieved to be back near the warmth of the sitting room. After taking off my damp coat, boots, gloves and muffler, I collapsed into my chair before the cheerful blaze in the hearth.

"Watson, what's this?" asked Holmes from behind me.

I turned around to look. Holmes was pointing at what appeared to be a brownish colored cake on the table.

"Wait, there's a note with it!" exclaimed Holmes. He picked it up and read it. My friend's expression changed from curiosity to somewhat amused irritation. "It's Lestrade's Christmas present to me," he said, shaking his head. "Lestrade has given me a _fruitcake,_ Watson."

I snorted. "Wasn't it last year that you left a fruitcake in Lestrade's office?"

"Yes," he replied. "Now, what should I give him in return?" Holmes mused, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Three days later, I learned what Holmes had given Lestrade. A telegram arrived at the flat, with the words:

"MR. HOLMES, WHAT THE DEVIL AM I GOING TO DO WITH 27 FRUITCAKES? LESTRADE."

I must admit that I laughed rather harder than I should have, before telling Holmes off for harassing the poor Inspector.

* * *

**A/N: *Dies of laughter* Hope you enjoyed! :)**


	5. Dec 5

**December 5: Missed birthday. Could be anyone's. (from Lucillia)**

**A/N: Holmes's POV. January 7, 1883.**

* * *

It was late in the evening, and Watson still hadn't returned. He had been out tending to his patients since early this morning, and I thought that he ought to have been back by now, even taking into account the awful bought of influenza going around.

As the hall clock announced that it was a quarter after eight, I heard the front door open and shut, and slow, limping footsteps ascending the stairs. My flatmate appeared in the doorway, covered in quickly melting snowflakes and dripping on the carpet.

"Cold out there?" I asked, for the sake of starting a conversation; any imbecile could have deduced that fact.

Watson nodded, clearly shivering as he limped stiffly to the fireplace. He had considerable difficulty in getting his coat unbuttoned with his hands shaking as they were, and without saying a word, I stood up and unbuttoned the last few of them for the poor fellow. He glared at me as I did so, apparently miffed by my assisting him, but thanked me warmly after he had gotten the soaked coat, boots, hat, and muffler off and collapsed into his chair before the fire.

"What kept you so late?" I asked the obvious question, once Watson seemed thawed enough to be able to respond.

Watson surprised me by smiling. "I realized this morning that your birthday was yesterday, and I had been so busy that I had completely forgotten it. After I finished with my last patient of the afternoon, I went out to find something suitable for you."

"Watson, you really didn't have to do that," I said. "To be honest, I'd nearly forgotten my birthday as well."

Watson snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

"So," I began, reining in my curiosity and trying not to sound _too_ eager, "what did you get me?"

Watson laughed outright, and pulled a small object wrapped in brown paper out of his waistcoat pocket. "You'll have to find out." He handed it to me, smiling.

I eagerly untied the string and pulled the brown paper away from the object inside.

It was a fine magnifying glass.

"It's excellent, Watson," I said gratefully, smiling at my friend.

"I thought you'd like it," he replied.

"It's just what I needed," I remarked.

"I know," Watson answered happily.

I looked up at him.

"Don't think you're the_ only_ one who can play detective around here," said Watson, grinning.

* * *

**A/N: Heheheh, I do love Watson. :)**


	6. Dec 6

**December 6: Christmas cards (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

"So, what was in the mail?" asked Holmes, causing me to start. I had been sitting at my desk with my back to the door, and didn't realize he'd entered the sitting room.

"Christmas cards, mostly," I replied.

Holmes shook his head. "I have never understood what everyone finds so appealing about sending and receiving such things."

I shook my head as well. "I have yet to meet a man with less Christmas cheer than you, Holmes." I took a handmade card out of an envelope. "Oh, look, it's from Wiggins!"

Holmes looked over my shoulder and read the card aloud. "'A very happy Christmas to Dr. Watson and Mr. Scrooge.' Haha, very funny."

I chuckled. "Actually, it _is_ rather funny."

He elbowed me.

* * *

**A/N: Heheh, Wiggins.**


	7. Dec 7

**December 7: Nutcracker (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

"Oh my goodness," said Holmes, in what sounded like an awestruck voice.

"What is it?" I asked, looking up from my newspaper at him.

"I think Mycroft has mailed me a Christmas present."

"Oh my goodness," I echoed. For as long as I had known them, the two Holmes brothers had never sent each other a Christmas present, or even a card.

Holmes tore the paper off the parcel and opened the small box. "Watson, what on earth…?"

"Why has Mycroft given you a nutcracker?"

"Either it's a strange practical joke," began Holmes, then his eyes lit up and he leapt to his feet, "or it's some clue regarding a case! Come, Watson!" he exclaimed, and ran out of the sitting room and down the stairs, not waiting for me to catch up with him.

* * *

**A/N: I realize that these keep getting shorter and shorter. I have no excuse. Hopefully inspiration will cooperate more soon. :)**


	8. Dec 8

**December 8: Struggle (from Alosha135)**

**A/N: Lestrade's POV. Never done anything from his perspective before, but what the heck, I'll give it a go!**

* * *

I had invited Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson—along with a few fellow Inspectors and a couple of my favorite constables—out to my favorite public house after the the particularly successful completion of a forgery case.

After about an hour and more than he should have probably had to drink, Hopkins made some mention of the arm wrestling competitions we had had at Scotland Yard at various Christmas parties, which led to the topic of arm wrestling in general, and who had beaten whom, etc., etc.

A thought struck my mind, and the alcohol having loosened my tongue, I immediately voiced it. "Mr. Holmes, have you and the Doctor ever arm wrestled?"

They both frowned and shook their heads.

"No, I don't believe we have," Mr. Holmes replied.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" exclaimed Gregson (whom I had invited purely because he had been involved in the case; I most certainly did not enjoy his company).

"This I have to see," said Bradstreet, pulling up a chair to the table where Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, Hopkins and I were seated.

MacPherson, one of the constables, pulled up a chair as well. Harrison and Parker, the other two constables, and Patterson and Peter Jones (both Inspectors) stood around the table, watching the proceedings with interest.

"Well, it seems we haven't a choice in the matter," said Watson, looking around at everyone's expectant faces and chuckling. "Well, Holmes, are you ready?"

Mr. Holmes's competitive side was beginning to get the better of him. "You bet I am, Watson!" he exclaimed, and proceeded to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve.

The Doctor grinned and did the same.

"I bet three shillings on Holmes!" called out Hopkins.

"I put five on the Doctor!" answered Patterson.

"A shilling on Holmes!" called out Harrison.

"Two on Dr. Watson!" Parker said, giving Harrison a look of rather smug confidence.

"Four shillings on Holmes," said Patterson, setting his hat on the table so that we'd have a place to put our money.

"One on Holmes!" called out MacPherson.

"Who do you reckon'll come out on top?" I asked Jones.

"I don't gamble," said Jones. He hesitated. "Oh, what the heck, two shillings on Holmes!"

"Five shillings on Watson!" Gregson and I both said in precise unison. We both immediately assumed horrified expressions at being caught agreeing on something, and the others laughed heartily.

"Well, we've finally found something you two can agree on!" exclaimed Watson, grinning. "I'm flattered by your confidence in me."

"You'll regret throwing away your money on him!" Mr. Holmes warned, wagging a finger at Gregson and me.

By this point in time, several of the other people in the public house had gathered around the table, eager to see what would happen. The bartender stood behind Patterson's left shoulder, looking eagerly on whilst drying a glass.

When all of the money had been placed in the hat, Mr. Holmes and the Doctor prepared for their arm wrestling match. They made sure their elbows were set completely on the table, and Patterson warned them that if they picked up their arm they would forfeit the match.

"Worried, Watson?" asked Mr. Holmes, grinning competitively.

"You wish," answered the Doctor without skipping a beat, grinning back.

They tightly gripped each others hands.

"Get ready, gentleman," I said. "Three, two, one, **_go_**!"

At first their arms swayed back and forth, and it was unclear who was doing better. Muscles stood out in Mr. Holmes's thin but sinewy pale forearm, and in Dr. Watson's slightly thicker and tanner one. They stopped at a nearly upright position, after about ten seconds and their arms remained in that position for nearly thirty seconds after that. The public house had become nearly silent at the outset of this competition, but now cheers encouraging both parties echoed around the room.

"Come on, Doctor, you can take him!"

"Give it all you've got, Holmes!"

Sweat was beginning to form on the Doctor's brow. Slowly but surely, Holmes managed to push the Doctor's arm back. When it reached about a 50 degree angle, he made a great effort and pushed Holmes back, making it to perhaps 120 degrees before Holmes managed to push him back again. They remained at about 70 degrees for nearly a full minute.

Beads of sweat began to form on Mr. Holmes's brow as he struggled against Watson's newest return, and his arm was pushed back to nearly 140 degrees and remained there for nearly eight seconds before the detective managed to reverse directions, and push the Doctor back to 80 degrees. He made another huge effort, pushing Holmes back to nearly 160 degrees. The volume of the cheering increased exponentially with every inch the Doctor gained.

Clenching his jaw and baring his teeth, Mr. Holmes pushed back again, sweat now running down the side of his face. With this latest and greatest effort yet, he managed to push the Doctor all the way back to an impressive 45 degrees, before the Doctor got the better of him again. So slowly that a snail could have easily outpaced him, Watson pushed his friend's arm all the way back until it was only about two inches from the surface of the table. With a massive effort, Holmes pushed Dr. Watson back almost a full three inches before he gave in.

Sherlock Holmes's arm went limp, and the back of his fist hit the wooden table with a resounding thunk, which set all of us cheering, even those who had bet on Holmes. We all congratulated Watson on his victory (naturally, as we all wanted to see Holmes finally beaten at _something_), and the two shook hands, grinning at each other.

"I really never get your limits, Watson," said Mr. Holmes fondly.

"Is that a kind way of saying 'I thought for sure I'd beat you, Watson'"? the Doctor inquired.

Mr. Holmes laughed outright. "Perhaps, perhaps."

All in all, it was a pleasant evening, and I came away from it with a lighter heart and a few more shillings jingling in my pocket.

* * *

**A/N: Dang! I was late on finishing this one. Ah well, I'm only late by, like, 7 minutes.**

**Also, I know ****_almost nothing at all_**** about gambling, and not a ton about arm wrestling (as I've always been bad at it, and so avoided it), so ignore anything totally stupid. Or even just kinda stupid. I appreciate your bearing with me. :)**


	9. Dec 9

**December 9: When did Holmes hear about the death of Mary? (from Book girl fan)**

**A/N: Takes place at the beginning of February 1894. Assume they're speaking French.**

**Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I shivered. It was cold in the winter in France, especially if one's fire refused to start. I poked the log in the grate, then added some smaller sticks and threw in a match, willing the little flame not to flicker out. To my astonishment and joy, the sticks burned, and after a minute, the log started to smoke, then blue flames appeared on the surface, dancing with the happiness Holmes suddenly felt. I held my hands to the cheerful little blaze.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" I called.

"Mr. Sigarson?" asked the butler, opening the door. "A package has arrived for you."

"A package?" I said, confused. I hadn't been expecting anything. Could it be a trap of some sort, or a bomb?

"Yes, sir," the butler replied.

"Set it on the table," I said, gesturing to the coffee table near the door. The butler set the package on the table, bowed, and left.

I rose stiffly from my seated position before the fireplace and approached the table holding the package warily. Picking it up slowly, I found it to be rather heavy, and also surprisingly flexible, as though it were filled with—

Papers! That's what it was! Mycroft had informed me that he intended to send me news from London, as I was beginning to feel rather homesick, and had heard little of what had been happening back at home.

I tore open the package to find that my deduction was correct. The package was filled with newspapers. Smiling, I resumed my seat before the fire and flipped cheerfully through them, everything about the papers remind me of home. Nostalgia washed over me, and I felt a deep ache of homesickness in my chest. I missed London, I missed my flat in Baker Street, and most especially I missed my dear friend Watson.

Setting thoughts of my friend aside, I proceeded to look through the papers, noting many interesting tidbits down in a notebook I kept in my pocket, in case I should need them later on.

Half an hour later, Watson's name jumped out at me on the page. To my horror, I saw I was in the obituary column. Fearfully glancing back down at it, I saw the words, _"Mary Watson, wife of Dr. John H. Watson of Kensington, died at four in the afternoon on January 12th…"_

I couldn't bring myself to read any more than that.

Mary was dead.

Poor Watson! What was he to do? He'd lost the two people most dear to him within three years of each other.

Self hate filled every fiber of my being. Why had I gone and done this to my friend? Not only had I caused suffering, I had, without meaning to do so, worsened this new suffering by not being there for him when this happened. I hurled the paper into the fire in my anger, and wishing that as the paper dissipated into smoke, so would this knowledge.

Of course, it didn't.

I put my head in my hands with a sigh. I needed to get back to Watson, but I also needed to wait, in order to keep myself—and Watson as well—safe. I felt torn between the two duties, and the latter won out. I would be no use to Watson if I got myself killed trying to return to him.

Something needed to happen so that I could return to my friend, and it needed to happen quickly.

* * *

**A/N: I tried not to make this too much like the last scene in my story Several Times, but it still ended up being more similar than I would have liked. *Shrugs* Oh, well.**


	10. Dec 10

**December 10: A kid has lost an exotic pet which would be a rather mundane and possibly even a food animal in the Americas. (from Lucillia)**

**A/N: Watson's POV.**

* * *

I heard the sound of several hands frantically knocking at the front door of the flat, and as Mrs. Hudson and Holmes were both out, hurried (as quickly as I could, with my bad leg and shoulder) to see who was there.

Upon opening the door, I was nearly run over by four young street urchins with flushed faces as they hurried inside to where it was warmer. I had lived with Holmes long enough now to know about his little Irregulars, and assumed that these children were members of that little gang.

"Doctor, Doctor!" the boy with curly brown hair exclaimed. "Oi've lost Alex! Is Mr. 'Olmes here?! Oi reckon 'e could 'elp me foind 'im!"

"Mr. Holmes is out, I'm afraid," I replied. "Who's Alex?"

"'E's my pet, sir," the boy replied. "'E's a li'le baby 'Merican Alligator!"

I blinked, my mind slowly registering this fact. "You have lost an _alligator_?!"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "'E's jus' a li'le baby, though' 'e ain't gonna hurt nuffin', but Oi'm afraid that if someone else foinds 'im, they'll get awful scared and 'urt 'im!"

"I see," I replied, rubbing my temple. Great, now I'd better help the boy find his alligator. "Well, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but maybe I can help you boys find Alex. Now, where did you last see him?"

* * *

**A/N: I'm stopping here, because I'm exhausted and I have an awful cold and I feel generally crappy and unmotivated. However, I may continue this at some point when I feel up to it, because a baby alligator investigation sounds like fun. :)**


	11. Dec 11

**December 11: Mrs. Hudson begins acting strangely. Why? (from Wordwielder)**

**A/N: Watson's POV. Takes place in July, so take off those mittens and scarves, everybody!**

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" I asked as I reached the bottom of the kitchen stairs, where Mrs. Hudson was closing the oven door.

My landlady started and whirled around.

"Oh! Doctor!" she exclaimed, her voice shaking a little.

"I apologise for scaring you," I said.

"It's quite all right, dear; you surprised me a little, that's all," she replied, waving off my apology.

"I came down here to ask if you knew when Holmes would be returning," I said.

"No, I'm afraid he hasn't confided in me either," she answered.

"Well, thank you very much anyway," I replied, and turned to leave.

"You weren't planning on going anywhere this evening, were you?" she inquired suddenly.

"No, I wasn't," I answered, shaking my head and turning back to face her.

"Good—I mean, I was just wondering, thank you for telling me," she responded, looking flustered.

"You're very welcome," I replied somewhat awkwardly. "Well, I'm going back upstairs now."

"Yes, yes, you do that," she said, quickly turning away.

As I made my way slowly up the stairs to the sitting room, I wondered what on earth was bothering Mrs. Hudson. I spent the next few hours in alternating between reading, fanning myself with the pages of my book, and wishing it wasn't so confoundedly hot. However, all the while I found my thoughts continually brought back to our landlady's strange behavior. I should have to ask Holmes if he could throw any light on the subject when he returned, whenever that would be.

'Whenever that would be' turned out to be at about five-thirty.

"Good afternoon, Doctor!" he exclaimed, grinning widely at me, and apparently carrying something under his suit jacket. He disappeared into his room, returning without the jacket and whatever he had been hiding from me, but still maintaining the ebullient humor.

"Why so cheerful?" I asked, smiling in spite of myself. It was rare indeed to see Holmes in such a good mood.

"Oh, you know," said Holmes shrugging as he sat down on the settee.

I chuckled. "No, I don't, actually. You see, I, unlike you, am _not_ a detective."

"Come now, Watson! One needn't be a Sherlock Holmes—oh, never mind, you'll find out soon enough anyway."

"Find out what?" I pressed, wondering what on earth was going on. "Does it have something to do with Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.

"Ah! He's beginning to make the connections!" Holmes noted to himself.

"Don't be so infuriating!" I exclaimed.

"I really don't think I have it in me to be any less infuriating," he answered. "Now, I have something very important to do that will not allow for any questions from inquisitive doctors!"

"And what's that?" I queried.

"Take a nap," he replied, stretching, and then curling up on the settee.

I shook my head fondly and returned to my book, unable to fathom what was going on around here.

I roused Holmes when Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner. She'd made pasta, which she had started doing more often after learning that I was fond of Italian food. I enjoyed the meal very much, despite—or because of, I really am not sure which—Holmes's continuously giving me oh-come-on-now-you-can-figure-this-out looks, and chuckling to himself when I only shook my head and rolled my eyes in reply.

Mrs. Hudson returned to clear away the dishes a while later, and Holmes began to bounce up and down slightly in his seat.

I stared at him incredulously and shook my head.

"Close your eyes, Watson!" he exclaimed.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"Just do it!" Holmes replied.

"Okay, okay," I replied, uncertainly closing my eyes and putting my hands over them and putting my elbows on the table. I was beginning to have a guess as to what this was all about, but how could Holmes possibly know…?

"No peaking!" I heard Holmes's voice as his footsteps retreated in the direction of his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps ascended the stairs, and then come toward the table and set something down on the table. Holmes returned quickly to the table as well.

"All right, you can open your eyes!" he exclaimed.

I did so, and beheld a spectacular cake and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting on the table next to it.

"Happy Birthday, Watson!" they both exclaimed.

"This is wonderful!" I replied. "But how did you know?! Holmes, did you just _deduce_ that it was my birthday?"

"My dear Doctor, I'm a detective, not a magician! I asked Stamford."

* * *

**A/N: Heehee. I'm kind of proud of that ending. And I'll leave it up to you what Holmes got for him.**

**Special thanks to my good friend Cole for inspiring Holmes's personality in this story. :)**


	12. Dec 12

**December 12: The Irregulars enlist 221B's help in a massive snowball fight. (from Wordweilder)**

**A/N: Just a warning, I switch POV's back and forth in this story.**

* * *

**_Watson's POV, two o' clock._**

I was sitting in my chair before the fire reading through one of the cheap novels I had bought a few days before in anticipation of a snowstorm (which had indeed occurred) when I heard the knocking on the front door. Holmes had insisted on leaving the flat despite the knee-high drifts, and I informed Mrs. Hudson that I would answer the door so she needn't bother herself about it.

I opened it, and five red-faced Baker Street Irregulars bounced inside. The Irregulars were the ragtag group of street urchins sometimes employed by Holmes for spying or errands or anything else they could help with.

"Hello, Edwin, Tom, Harry; good to see you've found a hat, Isaac, and hello to you too, Max!" I said as they all chattered over each other and greeted me. "Mind you wipe your boots on the rug; you know how Mrs. Hudson dislikes mud and snow tracked in."

"It's the snow we're here t' see you about, Doctor!" exclaimed Edwin, one of the older boys. "We're planning a snowball fight at Regent's Park against five of the other Irregulars, and we were 'oping to get you on our side, since we figured out the others are gonna try an' get Mr. 'Olmes."

"Ah," I replied. "I think I could probably handle that. I'm a pretty good shot, even with snowballs."

"'E's bein' modest," said Tom to the other boys. "Oi've seen 'im 'it Mr. 'Olmes square in the chest at twenty feet!" The stared at me with awestruck faces.

I smiled. It was true. My, that was a day to remember.

"Anyhow," said Edwin in a very business-like tone, "We were 'oping to catch you when Mr. 'Olmes was out, and we've succeeded at tha'. So, are ya in?"

"What time is this to take place, and where?" I asked.

"Four this afternoon—be there fifteen minutes ahead of that, mind—near the huge oak tree sort of near the lake, just to your right when you go into the park from this direction. You can't miss it, Doctor!"

"I'm certainly in then!" I replied cheerfully.

All five of them cheered.

"Would you like to come in for a little while and warm up?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so," Edwin replied. "We don't want Mr. 'Olmes to catch us here."

"Ah, all right then," I replied. "I'll see you boys later."

They all bid me good bye, and left with less clamor than I usually associated with their little gang. After they left, I realized that they were all less hyperactive than they normally were when not doing something for Holmes. It seemed they were treating this snowball fight almost as seriously as one of Holmes's assignments. I chuckled fondly when I reached this conclusion.

**_Holmes's POV, an hour and a half later_**

I had barely sat down in my chair before the fire to begin warming up when I heard the knock on the door. Watson had only just left for some reason—I hadn't asked or attempted to deduce, and he hadn't mentioned a reason—and I decided to take pity on Mrs. Hudson and reluctantly abandoned my seat and made my way to the door.

Upon opening the door, I was greeted merrily by five members of my Irregular boys. Greeting each of them by name, I let them in, warning them all to leave as much snow as possible outside rather than in.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" Nick exclaimed. "We're 'aving a snowball fight against five o' the other boys, and they've gotten the Doctor on their side! The fight's in twenty-eight minutes, and we need your help!"

"They've convinced Watson to join them?!" I exclaimed. "However did they manage that?"

"Between you and me," said Daniel, "Edwin's pretty clever, and he may have told the Doctor that we would have you on our side, since that's about the only thing that would get him to join. It would be safe to say that too, since he knew we would find out that he's on their side, and of course try to get you on our side, and knowing that the Doctor's with them, you'd join us."

"That's likely enough," I replied, then grinned. "I've trained you boys well. Well, it seems I have no choice but to join you. I shall return when I have put on some warmer clothing, and then we will see about winning this snowball fight!"

**_Watson's POV_**

When I reached the oak tree I had been told to find, I immediately joined in the snow-fort wall making process, earning a few odd looks from passersby. The wall was about about a foot high and five wide, and my gloves and trouser knees were soaked through to the skin when our opponents arrived.

Nicholas was in the lead, followed by Henry, Daniel, Jack, and Arthur. Holmes took up the rear, looking rather ridiculous following behind them.

"They've got a head start!" Jack exclaimed as they noticed us.

"We had better get moving then!" Holmes replied, looking as excited and competitive as the other five.

I checked my watch. Eleven minutes till snowball fight time.

**_Holmes's POV_**

Daniel, Arthur, and Henry were working on snowballs while Jack and I constructed our defensive wall. We had set up our camp about twenty feet away from the other group: close enough we could still hit them with fair accuracy, but far enough away that we could easily duck behind our wall (when it was finished, of course) and be out of harm's way.

Nick stopped for a moment to check a pocket-watch that looked far too expensive to have been acquired in a legal fashion. "Three minutes," he informed us.

**_Watson's POV_**

Now that the wall was complete, we were all making snowballs as fast as we could. Our pile probably had about fifty in it when Isaac announced that it was two o' clock.

"All right," said Edwin. "Both teams are to meet in the middle to clear up any confusion about rules."

We headed toward the other group as they stood up and headed toward us. We stood in a line, and the other group stood with one of them opposite every one of us.

"Team with the most members standing after ten minutes wins, unless a team surrenders," said Edwin. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," Nick replied. "And no time outs allowed unless there is a serious injury."

"Agreed," Edwin replied. "We'll count down from five, and no one is to touch the snowballs until we begin."

"Agreed. Everyone back to their sides," Nick said.

"Ready to win?!" Edwin exclaimed, turning to us as as we started back for our fort.

All of us replied with variants on "You bet we are!"

"Don't get too cocky, Watson," Holmes warned.

"I think you ought to be worrying about yourself at this point, Holmes!" I replied.

"We'll see about that!" he answered, now yelling because of the distance between us. We had now attracted a the attention of quite a few people in the area.

"Counting down from five!" Edwin hollered.

"Five!" he shouted.

"Four!" Several others joined in this time.

"Three!" We all yelled it this time

"Two!" All of us were bent down to reach the snowballs now.

"One!" We had attracted a crowd of onlookers now.

"_Go!_"

I picked up two snowballs as quickly as I could, and hurled the first one directly for Holmes's hat, knocking it clean off his head. Unfortunately I was hit in the right arm as I was throwing the second and it missed Holmes by about ten feet.

"Ha!" I heard Holmes shout triumphantly as I dove down for more snowballs.

Glancing around at my comrades I saw that so far only two showed signs of having been hit so far. As I stood up I saw Tom hurl a snowball that hit Nick squarely on the wrist, knocking his snowball to the ground.

"Great throw, Tom!" I exclaimed as I threw a snowball at Jack, who expertly dodged my throw. I aimed another one for Holmes, and this one hit him in the shoulder as he was drawing back his arm to throw a snowball. Now it was his turn to miss by a mile.

"Ha!" I shouted back at him.

The next several minutes are a blur of snow flying back and forth, hits and close misses, and managing to knock Holmes' s hat off twice more, simply for the sake of annoying him. I know I was hit once in the chest, twice on my right arm and four times on my left, and I was hit on the side of the face once with a snowball thrown by Arthur. I also know that I hit my target on about half of my throws (those boys are excellent at dodging!), and that I hit Holmes no less than seven times after that. (Ha!)

After the ten minutes were up, we were all whooping and cheering and laughing and dripping half-melted snow everywhere. Nick and Edwin decided to call it a tie, and we all headed back toward Baker Street for hot chocolate.

We left our snow-soaked outerwear in the front hall, and carefully herded the youngsters into the sitting room. There weren't enough chairs for everyone, so Tom and Daniel (the two smallest) ended up sitting one on each of my legs.

Mrs. Hudson entered with several mugs of hot chocolate very soon. "I'll be right back with the rest," she said, and headed back down the stairs.

"Did you warn her that we'd be needing the hot chocolate?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, I did," I replied. "I figured it was only fair that she have some warning."

"Good of you," Holmes said, nodding.

Mrs. Hudson returned in a moment with several more mugs on a tray, and brought them around to everyone who had not yet gotten one.

"Boys, what do you tell her?" I prompted.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" they exclaimed in a chorus.

"You boys are very welcome," she replied smiling. "Mind you don't burn yourselves—it's quite hot." She retreated back down the stairs.

"Merry Christmas to all of you," I said, smiling at them. "I saw that eyeroll Holmes!"

"C'mon, Scrooge, you must've had _some_ fun today!" Henry exclaimed.

"Bah humbug," Holmes replied for their benefit, then couldn't help himself and grinned. "I wish all of you a Merry Christmas as well."

* * *

**A/N: Such fun. :)**


	13. Dec13

**December 13: "Your French leaves something to be desired." (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

"Mail's here," I mentioned to Holmes as he entered the sitting room.

"Care to take a look at it for me?" he asked, yawning and lying down upon the sofa.

"No problem," I replied mildly, picking up the first letter. Seeing it postmarked from Bordeaux, I asked, "Were you expecting anything from France?"

"No, I wasn't," Holmes said, lifting up his head a little bit in surprise. "Who is it from?"

"A Monsieur Durand," I replied. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

"No, I don't believe I've ever heard the name before. Open it and read it for me."

I tore open the edge of the envelope and pulled out the letter. Upon looking at the first line, I saw that it was written in French. I'd learned German rather than French as a boy, but decided to give reading it a try.

Holmes interrupted me by bursting into laughter. "Watson, your French leaves something to be desired!"

I rolled my eyes and threw the letter across the room at Holmes. "I took _German_ in school, Holmes, not French!"


	14. Dec 14

**December 14: Nightmare (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: Holmes's POV**

* * *

I awoke from the nightmare filled with more fear and emotional pain than anyone ever would have believed could exist in a man as unemotional as myself. I sat bolt upright, breathing raggedly and feeling the panic slowly recede, leaving my normally-organized mind in shambles. The last images of the nightmare replayed themselves in my mind, and I closed my eyes and shoved the heels of my hands into them until I saw stars in an attempt to make them go away, feeling as though I was about to cry.

The tears didn't come. I wasn't surprised; after spending so long showing little or none of the emotion I felt, of course it wouldn't come naturally. It felt strange, though. I ought to be crying…

I shook my head, dispelling these thoughts.

My breathing slowly returned to its normal pattern. Inhale…exhale. Inhale…exhale.

So did my heart. Pump, pump. Pump, pump.

I sat quietly, looking around at my bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight coming through a gap in the curtains, feeling all of the remaining fear and pain recede, leaving me as I was before.

An automaton.

Emotionless.

Alone.


	15. Dec 15

**December 15: Chimaera (from I'm Nova)**

**A/N: Takes place sometime in 1894, after Holmes's return. Watson's POV.**

* * *

I should have known it was useless to try cajoling Holmes into cleaning the sitting room. It had never worked in the old days, so why I thought it might work now is quite beyond my comprehension.

But I shall tell the events of my story in the order that they occurred.

It had been nearly two weeks since I moved back into our old rooms in Baker Street, and the flat was already a complete mess. I decided to put my foot down.

"Holmes," I said as he came down to breakfast that morning, "it is absolutely chaotic in here!"

"Accurate observation, though I fail to see how it is applicable at present," he replied, yawning widely.

"Well, we ought to tidy it up somewhat," I replied.

"Hmm, yes, if you must tidy, I won't stop you," he answered, sitting down in his chair across from me.

I set down my fork and stared at him.

"What?" he asked, appearing to be genuinely confused.

"I said, '_we_ ought to tidy it up', not _I_."

"Ah," he replied, looking uncomfortable. "You see, there's a slight problem with that suggestion."

"And what might that be?" I inquired.

"I—well, I shall be rather busy, and out of the flat for most of the day," he answered, biting his lower lip and cringing apologetically. "Sorry, Watson."

"This had better not just be an excuse to get out of cleaning," I said, spearing a sausage rather more violently than I intended to, causing Holmes to give a little start, which I did not feel sorry about in the least.

"No no no, not at all!" he replied emphatically.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered with Holmes's breakfast.

"Give it up, Doctor, it's a lost cause," said our wise landlady. "You are never going to get him to clean these rooms. Believe me, between the two of us, we've already tried everything."

* * *

**A/N: I realized I haven't gotten around to it yet, but a big thank you to everyone who has read these and even more so to everyone who has reviewed! :)**


	16. Dec 16

**December 16: Lestrade breaks his leg on ice. (from Spockologist)**

**A/N: Watson's POV. In the winter sometime.**

* * *

Holmes and I had been summoned by Lestrade to the scene of a very baffling robbery in Belgrave Square. It was getting dark, though it was only late afternoon, due to the time of year. Said time of year also brought frigid weather and a recent bought of freezing rain, which had left everything slick and increased the number of accidents of any kind.

When our cab reached the place to which we had been summoned, we saw a constable standing outside the the building. As we clambered out and carefully set foot on the icy pavement, the constable made his way towards us as quickly as was safely possible.

"Doctor Watson! It's fortunate you've shown up! There has been an awful mishap," he said as he reached us and carefully turned around to walk back to where he had come.

"What sort of mishap?" I asked.

"Lestrade's taken a fall, and we're pretty sure his leg is broken, though you can't tell it from looking," the constable replied.

"Could be worse then," I said. "Hopefully it's not too bad, all the same. You've called an ambulance, I presume?"

"Yes," the he replied. "But it will take it a little while to arrive in these conditions, so it's lucky you're here, Doctor."

"I hope I can be of some use then," I replied. We reached the door and the constable opened it.

"He's in the sitting room; head to your right," he directed.

"Thank you," Holmes and I both answered.

We found the sitting room, where Lestrade was stretched out on the sofa with his left leg resting on the ground and his right propped up, the trouser leg torn, apparently with a knife up to his knee. His shin was swollen and various shades of green and purple.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he said, grimacing. "I suppose you'll want to look at my leg."

* * *

**A/N: Stopping here because I'm not a doctor. Don't worry, Lestrade will be all right.**


	17. Dec 17

**December 17: Watson is extremely grouchy. (from Sparky Dorian)**

**A/N: Holmes's POV. Warning for cursing.**

* * *

I learned early on in our cohabitation that it is a very, very bad idea to awaken Watson before seven without a very, very good reason. My flatmate was willing to put up with a good many other annoying habits of mine, but this was a line I wish I had never crossed.

The previous afternoon, while Watson was out, I'd been consulted by a retired sailor, who insisted that there were some strange goings on at the docks. I'd agreed to meet him at the docks at five this morning, and forgotten to ask Watson when he returned if he wanted to come with us. I decided to at least ask him if he did.

It was just after four in the morning now.

"Watson," I whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Watson!"

He frowned and batted my hand away, muttering something that may have been "Go away," but also could have been "Go to hell." I decided that it must have been the former, and shook him harder.

"The game's afoot, Watson," I whispered a little louder. "There are some strange goings on at the docks, and I wanted to see if you wanted to come along with me."

"Damn your blasted cases right now; I'm trying to get some sleep!"

I was sure that was what I had heard, but I couldn't believe my ears. "Are you sure you don't want to come along?"

Watson swore a blue streak at me that would have put my client to shame.

"I'll just let you sleep then," I replied, backing away.

"Too right you will," he answered. Several seconds later, I heard him begin to snore.

When I returned from the docks at about eight, Watson was eating breakfast. I soon realized that he had absolutely no recollection of any of these events, and I have decided not to tell him.

It's probably for the best.


	18. Dec 18

**December 18: Holmes attempts to evade mistletoe at a holiday party. (from Wordweilder)**

**A/N: *Evil writer laugh* So sorry, Holmes!**

**Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I regretted coming to this Christmas party before I even arrived. Some friend of Mycroft's got it into his silly old head to invite me to his Christmas party, and Mycroft insisted that I needed to come, so I would not reflect badly on him. I pointed out that I was likely to make him look bad more by going than staying home, but he insisted I come all the same.

At least Watson was coming along, I thought, as we climbed into a cab and headed toward the house where the party was to take place.

After we entered, Watson—being the social butterfly of the pair of us—immediately saw some fellow he knew from somewhere and soon they were chatting and laughing like old pals. I stalked off to a back corner to sit by myself and avoid associating with my fellow mortals.

I amused myself for a short while by people watching, and deducing all of the guests' occupations, habits, and relationships, among other things. I soon grew bored; such deductions weren't nearly as fun when there was no one I could dazzle with them. I scanned the room and found that Watson was standing fairly close by, now chatting with a different fellow and his wife.

I vaguely noticed a young woman in a light blue dress headed in my general direction, then did a perfect double take when I saw that she was headed right towards me! I sat up a little straighter, unsure of what to do. She appeared to be a little tipsy, and was sloshing her champagne flute a little as she walked towards me, as though she had forgotten she was holding it.

"You're Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" she remarked as she approached.

"Yes, indeed I am," I answered cautiously.

She sat down rather heavily next to me, spilling a little of her champagne on her dress. "I've heard of you."

"So have a good many people," I replied. "And, who are you?"

"Elsie Mayne," she purred, leaning too close to me for comfort. "Doubt you've heard of me," she added in a quieter tone, batting her eyelashes at me.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't," I replied nervously, scooting as far away from her as I could while remaining in my chair.

"Ah, well, now you know my name," she said, leaning still closer.

"Yes, it was nice meeting you," I said quickly, jumping to my feet and backing away. Unfortunately, my back hit a wall.

I gulped as she rose as well, setting down her flute on a table, and advanced toward me.

"It was lovely meeting you too," she said.

"Yes, well, I ought to be going," I said stepping off to the right.

She grabbed be by the arm, much to my discomfort and horror. "Not just yet, I don't think. Look." She pointed up. I followed her finger up to the ceiling.

Mistletoe.

This was very, very bad.

Before I even had a chance to look back at her, she grabbed me by either side of my face and kissed me on the mouth. For a moment I stood in shock, then I reeled backward, slamming my back into the wall and knocking the wind out of myself.

The girl stepped back, looking shocked as I doubled over, attempting to catch my breath.

Watson was at my side in a moment, helping me to a sitting position. "Holmes! What happened?!"

"Can't…breathe…Watson…" were the only words I managed to say as I began to take a few shallow, halting gasps.

"What have you done to him?!" Watson demanded of the girl.

"N—nothing," she exclaimed, blushing. "I—I kissed him, and he fell over and hit his back on the wall!"

"You _kiss_—oh, never mind," said Watson turning back to me.

I could breathe shallowly now. "I'll be fine," I managed to say. "Just knocked the wind out of me."

"Goodness, Holmes, you need to be more careful with yourself!" Watson exclaimed.

"Tell me about it," I replied, groaning. My back was going to hurt something awful in the morning, I just knew it.

How I regretted coming to this blasted party.

* * *

**A/N: This is really not Holmes's evening! Getting kissed by that woman, and then having the wind knocked out of him! I'm not sure if he's damaged more physically or psychologically. *Fails at trying not to laugh at the poor detective***


	19. Dec 19

**December 19: A Christmas horror mystery. (from mrspencil and Ennui Enigma)**

**A/N: It's sort of a mystery, and it's definitely horrifying. I'm still recovering from writing it.**

**Holmes's POV.**

* * *

It happened that Watson and I were away on a case at a castle in Switzerland towards the end of December, and an awful snowstorm hit just three days before Christmas, making any travel impossible. We were stuck with our client and his household, but at least the man who had kidnapped his wife and daughters was now safely in jail, and would not be causing any more scares.

Or so we thought.

It was late on Christmas Eve. We had eaten a hearty dinner, and the pastor who had also been snowed in at the castle had given a small prayer service, and after much talking—and in some cases drinking—everyone had headed off to bed.

For some reason, I could not sleep that night. I had a very bad feeling that something was going to happen. Something bad. I have learned to trust my instincts, so at around three in the morning, I threw a dressing gown on over my nightclothes, and making sure my pistol was loaded, placed it in the pocket of my dressing gown. The door creaked as I pushed it open, and a gust of cold air chilled me to the skin.

I shivered, glad that I did not live in a castle all winter; they are deucedly hard to keep even remotely warm.

Crossing the threshold and closing the door softly behind me, I strained my ears for any strange sounds. My breathing and the nervous pounding of my heart sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. I turned left and walked apprehensively toward Watson's bedroom, my footsteps echoing loudly off the stone walls and floor.

Quietly pushing the door open, I put my head and shoulders through the crack and looked into the room. In the dimly moonlit room I could make out Watson's figure lying upon the bed. The fire had burned down to a few red embers. I put another log on and shuffled the embers around a little with the poker, and sat down in one of the chairs as a few little flames began to lick the sides of the log.

I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye, and whirled to face the window in time to see a small bare foot being whisked away from the surface of the window. I leapt out of the chair and ran over to the window, undid the latch as quickly as I could with my fumbling fingers and threw open the window, looking out at the knee-high drifts of snow a storey below, then up at the sheer castle wall above and about me, and on my right. Watson's room was at the corner of the castle, so there was not much to see to the left either.

It was impossible…and yet I _had_ seen that foot!

I closed the window and latched it, confused, worried, and—yes, I'll admit it—a little frightened.

"Holmes, what's going on?" I heard Watson's voice behind me.

"Nothing," I replied, still staring out the window. "I just thought I saw something, that's all."

"What did you see?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

I heard him climb out of his bed and walk up behind me. "Tell me, what did you see?" he asked again.

"I thought I saw a child's foot, Watson," I replied slowly. "A child's bare foot."

"But how can that be?" he asked me. "We are a floor above ground level, and how could anyone, let alone a child, scale that wall? And why would they not be wearing boots?"

"I don't know," I replied, now turning to face my friend. Watson looked as worried as I felt.

"Well, we can't do anything about it now," he replied. "Perhaps we ought to get some sleep."

"I don't think I shall be able to sleep," I said. "I couldn't before either. I can't shake the feeling that something very bad is going to happen very soon. Perhaps it is happening at this moment, and we do not know it," I added ominously.

"Do not say such things!" Watson exclaimed, shuddering. "I do not think I shall be able to sleep either."

"We can stay awake together then," I said, more grateful for Watson's company than I care to admit.

We settled down into the two chairs before the fireplace, both of us silent and anxious.

Not thirty seconds had passed and we heard two screams of terror, horrible to hear, from the direction my bedroom lay. We ran out of Watson's room and towards the screams, only to realize that it was coming from a floor above us.

"It's up a floor!" I exclaimed, turning on my heel and running toward the stairs at the other end of the hallway, Watson right behind me. We reached the top and headed toward the screaming. One of them broke off abruptly when we were halfway down the hallway. I realized as we reached the doorway that it was the room belonging to my client's three daughters.

A connection was formed in my mind, but I didn't want to believe it.

We reached the bedroom, just as our client, Mr. Erisman and his wife bolted out of his room to our left. He pushed his wife back into the room, telling her to stay put.

"Oh my God, my children!" Erisman cried, bolting toward the door. I grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him back.

"Be careful!" I hissed. "I shall go first, you second, and Watson will bring up the rear."

The other scream stopped as well. No, we were too late!

I crept toward the door, pistol in hand and pushed it open. The room appeared to be in perfect order.

The only thing out of place was that the children were gone.

A man stood by the window, where four ropes hung, all tied securely to the top bar of one of the four poster beds. Three of then went out of the window, and the fourth he held in his hands. There was a noose at the end, which he placed around his neck.

"I may be leaving this life," said the man, whom we all knew was the criminal we believed to be imprisoned, "but I have taken your children with me!"

Before we could stop, him, he climbed up onto the window frame and jumped.

* * *

**A/N: *Curls up in a ball and whimpers* I believe I just scared myself.**

**Free virtual hugs for any terrified reviewers.**


	20. Dec 20

**December 20: After attending a mummy auction, Holmes and Watson wake up in ancient Egypt. (from Sparky Dorian)**

**A/N: Drat, I seem to have fallen behind, haven't I? I'm going to do my best to catch back up today. *Crosses fingers***

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**_Also, I cheated a little. Only Holmes attended the "mummy auction", not Watson. Shhhhhhh..._**

* * *

"Holmes, what the devil are do you think you going to do with a sarcophagus?!" Dr. Watson demanded, upon returning home to 221b and finding that Holmes had purchased the thing while he was out visiting patients that morning.

He moved from his flopped position upon the settee enough to throw a glance in his friend's direction. "I dunno," he replied. "Thought it might look nice in the corner of my bedroom."

Watson blinked, not sure what could be said to that, and not sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

Suddenly Holmes gave a loud, barking laugh and leapt from his prone position on the couch onto the ground and bounded toward the ancient Egyptian coffin.

"Watson, Watson, Watson!" he exclaimed, his grey eyes sparkling as he spoke. "I have been researching the history of this mysterious sarcophagus for the past two months, and I have determined that there is something not at all ordinary about it. When it falls into someone's possession, they always disappear for a week—precisely a week, no more and no less—and then reappear in some dark alley, reportedly stark raving mad. And another thing! They have all disappeared on a night when the moon is half full. Watson, the moon will be at the first quarter tonight!" He rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation.

"So you think it is a good idea that we sit in a room with an ancient Egyptian artifact on a night when the moon is half full and just see what happens?" Watson asked, nonplussed.

"That is the general idea," he replied. "What, do you not like it?"

"I think it positively absurd," the Doctor replied. "Holmes, I expect better of you. Have you been venturing out while under the influence of cocaine?"

Holmes bristled. "How dare you make such an accusation, Watson! I have not so much as touched it in more than a month! We shall see who really is the absurd one tonight!"

"All right," Watson replied. "We shall."

* * *

The word on the street the next day was that the great detective Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson had mysteriously vanished during the night. Inspector Hopkins was put on the case, but accomplished nothing except to determine that there was no foul play involved. A week later, the two reappeared in an alley in the East End. Upon being discovered and hauled to the Yard, all they would say is that they had been "very far away" and that they "could tell others nothing". Hopkins eventually gave up, and sent them back home, deciding that Sherlock Holmes could solve his own case.

* * *

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, stretching out on the settee with his hands behind his head. "That was fun, was it not?"

"I was going to say something more along the lines of 'thank goodness that's over', but I suppose 'that was fun' comes close enough," Watson replied dryly.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know what it is with these two and ancient Egypt. Unless I've completely lost it, I swear someone else had a prompt to this effect earlier in the month. *Shrugs* Whateves.**

**Oh, and big shout out to everybody who has left reviews during the past week or so that I didn't personally thank. Thank you all very much!**


	21. Dec 21

**December 21: Write a story where Watson attempts to master the art of making deductions from the observations of trifles. (from Galaxy1001D)**

**A/N: An all dialogue fic. Just picture them at Regent's park.**

* * *

"Now, Watson, what can you tell me about the man sitting there on that bench?"

"Well, he is tall and heavy set, middle aged, somewhere in the lower middle class, judging by his clothes, shoes and hat…he is a bachelor, as he seems to be doing his own shopping…hmm, goodness that is a tremendous beard, isn't it?"

"Come now, surely there is _something_ else you can see!"

"I don't know! Wait, there is some ink on his hand there, and oh, when he reached up to scratch behind his ear, did you see how shiny his sleeve was? That means he's done a lot of writing lately, right? So maybe, this middle aged bachelor's job involves writing. Hmm, is there something else we can figure out about him based on his shopping? It looks like he has…books in that bag maybe, though we're too far away for me to be certain."

"You are getting warmer. Now, notice the beard. It is tremendous, is it not? But notice the color."

"Why, it's a completely different brown from the hair and eyebrows, isn't it? Is it a false beard then? Is this man in disguise? For what reason, then? Is he spying on someone, or doing something illicit? Oh! He's standing up now…Holmes, he's coming right towards us! Do you suppose he noticed us talking about him?!"

"Do not worry, Watson."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I have come to inquire as to what you find so interesting about me."

"Mycroft, you can take off the beard now. Oh, Watson! You're an excellent friend, but not much of a detective."


	22. Dec 22

**December 22: Look away. (from Alosha135)**

* * *

"Watson, what are you doing?" Holmes asked, causing me to jump and spill ink all over the letter I had been writing.

I groaned set the inkwell upright and attempted to minimize the amount of ink making way to the carpet. "Well, I _was_ writing a letter to Mary, but now it seems I am mopping up ink with my handkerchief."

"My apologies, Watson. It was not my intention to startle you."

"It's all right," I replied. "I'll just have to start over. Holmes! Put that down!"

Holmes blushed and put my half ink-soaked letter to my fiancée back on the desk, and turned away. "Sorry, Watson; I just_ couldn't_ resist."

Swatting him on the arm, I replied, "Learn to."


	23. Dec 23

**December 23: Write a story where Watson and his wife visit the retired Sherlock Holmes for the holidays. (from Galaxy1001D)**

**A/N: AU where Mary didn't die, because my headcanon doesn't involve Watson marrying anyone but her.**

**Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I sat at my kitchen table, tapping my fingers on its smooth surface and vainly attempting to fool myself into believing that I hadn't been looking forward to this more than anything for nearly a week.

There was a ring at the bell! Finally!

I rushed to the door, and after taking a second to hold in my excitement, pulled it open, to reveal my dear friend Watson, and his wife, Mary.

"Hello, Watson!" I exclaimed, ushering them in. "It's good to see you too, Mrs. Watson."

"Really, Mr. Holmes, you are allowed to call me Mary," she said.

"And you are allowed to drop the 'Mr.' and just call me Holmes," I replied, leading them into my cozy little sitting room and gesturing for them to sit down in two of the chairs.

"Old habits are difficult to break," she answered sweetly.

"Indeed," Watson agreed, and his face split into a wide grin. "Goodness, I'm glad to see you, Holmes!"

"And I you, my dear fellow," I answered, a similar grin spreading across my face.


	24. Dec 24

**December 24: The Adventure of the Combustable Egg Nog (from Lucillia)**

**A/N: Watson's POV.**

* * *

When I ascended the seventeen steps up to the sitting room from the front door, I was cold, a little tired, and looking forward to quietly sitting by the fire for a little while.

But when you share a flat with Sherlock Holmes, peace and quiet are hard to come by.

"Good evening, Holmes," I greeted as I crossed the threshold of our shared sitting room.

"And you as well," he replied, pouring what appeared to be egg nog into a mug. "Care for some egg nog?" he asked.

"It's not some strange egg nog of your own creation, is it?" I asked, advancing toward him and dubiously eyeing the mug he offered me.

"No, no, it's a Christmas present from Lestrade," he replied.

"Well, in that case…" I took the mug. "I take it he's forgiven you for the fruitcake business of yesterday then?"

"Seems to have," Holmes picked up the other mug. "He never has held a grudge against me for too long."

"You're sure its safe?" I asked.

"Watson! Lestrade is a police detective! He isn't going to give us poisonous egg nog."

I shrugged. "I suppose you've got a point there."

"Cheers!" exclaimed Holmes, and we clinked our mugs and downed a little egg nog.

Good heavens, that egg nog was disgusting!

In half a moment we were both coughing and spluttering. I managed to slam my mug down on the table before falling to the floor but Holmes dropped his mug, which broke and the contents spilled all over the carpet and a trickle went into the fireplace, and in another moment the carpet was on fire!

I attempted to stamp some of it out, and Holmes ran into his room and came back out with a water pitcher, which he dumped on the rug.

"What on God's green earth was in that egg nog?!" Holmes exclaimed.

"More importantly, what are we going to do about the rug?"

* * *

**A/N: Well, it seems that Lestrade has gotten his revenge for the fruitcake affair. Holmes had that coming, but I feel for Watson.**


	25. Dec 25

**December 25: The red flag (from Alosha135)**

**A/N: Just a few lines of dialogue, because my muse wasn't working with me.**

**But I ****_will_**** get caught back up today.**

* * *

**"**Holmes, where did the Irregulars get the cloth to make the red flag they were using when they were playing 'king of the mountain' in that snow drift out back?"

"Well, don't tell Mrs. Hudson, but I accidentally melted one of the curtains in the bathroom. I replaced them before she found out, but I figured that the mostly un-melted curtain could be put to some use."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad you got them replaced at least, and the boys are having a good time with that flag."


	26. Dec 26

**December 26: Boxing. (from Lucillia)**

**A/N: Don't worry, you will eventually see how boxing is a part of this tale, even though it has nothing to do with boxing at the start.**

* * *

"Holmes, what are you up to in here?" I asked, knocking in his bedroom door. It was five minutes to ten in the morning, and I had not yet seen him, but I had heard sound of movement from his room. As it was unusual for him to not be out and about—or at least in the sitting room—before eight, I was naturally concerned.

"Nothing important, Watson!" he replied, his voice muffled by the door.

"May I come in then?" I inquired, twisting the doorknob and finding it locked.

"No no no!" he answered far too quickly. "I mean, I would appreciate it if you would not come in at the moment."

"Any particular reason why?" I was beginning to worry.

"No, it's nothing, really," he answered. "Go about your business. I should be out shortly."

"All right then," I answered, walking away, taking care to make my footsteps heard. When I was about ten feet away, I removed my shoes and tiptoed quietly back to the door and looked through the keyhole.

I could clearly see that Holmes, still in his nightclothes, was tied to a chair in the center of the room, with at least three burly men, all armed. Good lord, what had he gotten himself into this time, and how was I to get him out of it?!

I quietly returned to my shoes, and putting them back on and grabbing my revolver out of a desk drawer and stuffing it in my coat pocket, went down to the kitchen and through the back door, a vague plan of action forming in my mind.

There had been some construction work done on the building next door the previous day, and it seemed that the rogues in Holmes's room had brought a ladder over and propped it up against our building. I knew I wasn't really in any condition to be climbing up a ladder to the second storey window, breaking in and somehow rescuing Holmes, but what choice did I have?

I threw off my jacket, stuck the revolver down the front of my waistcoat, took a deep breath and began to climb.

It is a little known fact—and I intend to keep it as such—that I am not at all fond of heights, and especially not of ascending ladders, so these were really not ideal conditions for rational thought or action on my part.

I had to stop six rungs up to wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers, and swore under my breath when I saw that my hands were shaking. Ugh, I just needed to get over this ludicrous fear and make it up the ladder!

Gritting my teeth, I climbed up six more rungs, before stopping again to wipe my sweaty palms. The window sill to the right of me was level with my chest.

_Don't look down, don't look down._

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, feeling as though my heart was pounding inside my head.

_I can do this._

Having mustered my courage, I opened my eyes again. The window showed signs of having been broken into, and the lock was broken beyond repair, so getting inside would not be difficult. What would come next would be the hard part.

Assuming that Holmes had not been drugged, and injuries—if any—were minimal, Holmes would still be fairly useful in a fight, even if tied to a chair. And—aha!—yes, my pocket knife _was_ in my trouser pocket, so if I got a chance to my friend, I could!

I glanced up at the steady stream of smoke issuing from the chimney that lead to Holmes's fireplace, and an idea struck me.

As quickly as I could bring myself to do it, I climbed back down the ladder, grabbed my jacket, threw it over a shoulder and climbed up as far as I could go and still have my hands on the top rung of the ladder. The chimney was just to my left, and if I were only a couple feet higher and I could reach it.

I took a step up, pressing myself against the building and panting.

_Come on, I can do this._

I took another step.

_Dear God, was I ever high up._

_No, don't think about it!_

And another.

There was the chimney, just at eye level. Slowly and carefully, I took hold of my jacket, and threw it over the opening, stopping the smoke. They would have no choice but to open the window.

I will admit that while it wan't the greatest plan, that part of it did work quite effectively.

I descended the ladder so that I was level with the window again, and snuck a quick glance inside. Holmes was tied to the chair about three feet away and directly in front of the window, his back to me. A man stood behind him, keeping a gun carefully trained on him. Two men stood off to the left and another to the right, and I couldn't be sure, but it was safe to assume they were all armed.

I pulled my revolver out, and made sure that my pocket knife was within reach.

After maybe twenty seconds, the window was thrown open. Twisting around so I was in front of the window I pushed the man back, and clambered in the window. I ran blindly forward, found Holmes, set my revolver down and kneeled next to him. I pulled my knife out of my pocket and began cutting away at the ropes.

"Holmes, it's me!" I whispered as he attempted to pull away from me in surprise.

"Watson!" he said quietly in shock. "How did you—"

"No time!" I replied, cutting through the second of what seemed to be five or six ropes.

As this was going on, the men in the room were finding each other in the smog and attempting to figure out what had happened to the one I had pushed, who had apparently fallen to the floor, and hit his head, rendering him unconscious.

The smoke was filling my eyes and lungs as I frantically cut away at the rope.

"Holmes, when you're free I need you to go out your door, and stop them from leaving from that way. I am going back up to the roof, and taking my jacket off the chimney so they don't die from the smoke, and then move the ladder so they can't escape that way, all right?"

"Understood," Holmes replied.

I finally got the last of the rope cut through as the men in the room were coming to make sure Holmes was still there.

"Take my revolver!" I exclaimed, handing it to him.

"Don't worry about me," he replied, accepting it.

I ran back over to the window, and climbed back out and onto the ladder, my heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, and ascended the ladder to remove my ruined jacket. I snatched it off the chimney and made my way back to the ground as quickly as I could, and pulled the ladder back from the window just as a man's face appeared at the window.

"You're too late!" I shouted up. "A fall from that height could kill you, so stay put!"

He snarled at me then was yanked back into the room by someone or something I couldn't see.

I ran back in the kitchen door, and seeing Mrs. Hudson, shouted as I passed, "Get the police! Four men broke in, and we'll likely need some backup when they're conscious again!"

Without waiting for a reply I took the stairs up to the sitting room two at a time and was relieved to see Holmes shoving a second chair against his bedroom door.

"What in heavens' name just happened?" Holmes asked me.

"That was just what I was going to ask you," I replied. "You sounded a bit strange when you answered me, so I looked in the keyhole and saw that you were trussed up in that chair and those four blackguards with you, I ran around back and climbed up the ladder they left. I covered the chimney with my jacket, because I knew that all the smoke would limit the visibility, and they would also have to open the window."

"A very interesting approach," Holmes replied thoughtfully. "Not how I would have done it, but quite effective all the same. As for catching you up, well, these men are the ones that managed to escape when I broke up a smuggling ring last week. I didn't realize that they knew where I lived, or I would have been more cautious. I escaped the room just now using a few boxing techniques and baritsu moves which I have found to be quite effective. I trust the police have been called?"

"I have Mrs. Hudson on it. And can't you just be happy I saved your sorry self just now, and not critique the way I did it?"

"I was not critiquing, just saying that I would have done it dif—hang on, I thought you didn't like heights."

I shrugged, and after a short silence, replied, "I dislike rogues like these bullying you in your own house even more."

Holmes stared at me, an unidentifiable emotion visible in his thin face and grey eyes. "I am truly fortunate to have a friend like you, Watson."

I smiled at the sincere compliment and clapped him on the back. "I think it's even more fortunate that you are a boxer."

* * *

**A/N: *Cheers* Yay, Holmes and Watson!**

**I can't claim the jacket-over-the-chimney idea, I thought of it because they did it in True Grit (the old one), which I watched just last night. Good movie, that. I recommend it.**

**Watson's fear of heights has been headcanon for me for a while but I don't know if I picked it up somewhere or thought of it myself. *Shrugs***

**So anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this. :D**


	27. Dec 27

**December 27: A baby is left on the doorstep. Holmes does not know what to do and Watson and Mrs. Hudson are adamant that the child should not be taken to a workhouse. Though he does agree, what alternative do they have? (from KnightFury)**

**A/N: Well, infants appearing on the doorstep of 221b seems to be becoming a theme now. I'm certain mrspencil had a prompt to that effect earlier this month.**

**Once again, thank you to all of my reviewers; I know I haven't done very well at answering you all individually, but you are all very, very much appreciated. I'm up over 150 now! Thank you so much! :)**

**Murphy and Richards are working for Moriarty.**

* * *

_Three-o-clock in the morning. Fleet Street._

It was very, very late at night, or extremely early in the morning, depending upon your perspective on the matter. Two men walked swiftly down the otherwise-deserted street, their shoes clicking on the cobblestones. One carried an infant in his arms, and the other carried a bag of burglary tools.

The first man, a tall fellow called Murphy stopped in his tracks and swore loudly.

"What is it?!" Richards, a shorter man with a sly face, asked him.

"The boss said that we were to take the American senator's son, right?" Murphy said, looking down at the child in his arms.

"Yeah," the other replied.

"Well, we've got a little _girl_ here! Look, the blanket's yellow and pink!"

Richards swore as well now. "We got the wrong kid! How'd that happen? The senator's only got the one, and he's a boy!"

"The senator and his family must've left the hotel before nightfall and we didn't know, and some other family was in that room when we got there," Murphy said. "More importantly, what do we do with this girl now?"

"I say we leave her here and leg it," said Richards.

"That's not right, leaving an infant on the street at night." Murphy shook his head.

"Since when do you care about 'right'?" Richards demanded.

"I've a conscious, unlike you, you dirty scoundrel," he replied. "Now, where can we take her?"

"Beats me, mate," Richards replied. "I'm outta here, you can do what you like with baby girl here." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Murphy exclaimed. "I've got it, we'll take her to Sherlock Holmes's place, he's a right brilliant fellow—he'll figure out who she belongs to."

"As long as she's off our hands, that's all I care about," Richards replied. "You know how to get to his place from here?"

"Sure do."

They set off in the direction of 221b Baker Street, both hoping to get there before dawn.

* * *

_Four-o-clock the morning. Baker Street._

Mrs. Hudson awoke to the sound of an infant crying.

Sherlock Holmes awoke upon hearing Mrs. Hudson's cry of surprise upon finding the little girl in the front hall.

Dr. Watson was awakened by Holmes's shout of "_What the devil?!_" upon finding Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room calming the baby in her arms.

"Mrs. Hudson, where did this child come from?" asked Dr. Watson, upon seeing the scene in the sitting room.

"I haven't the faintest idea, she was in the front hall when I found her," the woman replied, rocking the baby in her arms.

"No note with her?" Holmes asked.

"None at all—I checked," she said. "Whatever are we to do with the child? I can't stand the thought of the poor dear being sent off to live her life in the workhouse."

"Neither can I," Watson agreed, yawning. "But what other option do we have, Holmes?"

Holmes shook his head sadly. "We have no idea who this child is or where she came from or why she was left _here_, of all places."

"Well, I shall take care of her for a few days at least, and see if anyone reports their infant daughter missing, and then if we haven't heard anything, I shall see if my cousin in Horsham would be willing to take her in."

"That sounds reasonable enough," Holmes replied. "Watson and I will be checking the papers, and I'll go down to Scotland Yard in a couple of hours."

* * *

_Five-o-clock in the morning. Morley's Hotel._

Mrs. Cooper awoke to the sound of too much silence, and rose from her bed to check on her baby.

Mr. Cooper was roused by her loud gasp of fear and dismay upon the crib empty.

Little Jamie Cooper awoke to the sound of his parents speaking with the manager of the hotel, who told them that he would fetch the police right away.

* * *

_Six-o-clock in the morning. Scotland Yard._

"Daddy! Daddy!" exclaimed Jamie, tugging in his father's arm. "Have they found Susan yet?"

"No, not yet," he replied. "I'll tell you when they do, don't you worry. Now run along and give your mother a hug, all right Jamie? I need to talk to the Inspector right now."

"Okay, Daddy," the boy replied.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Cooper, but there is very little evidence for us to work with, I'm afraid," said Inspector Lestrade.

"I can't imagine why anyone would want to kidnap my little girl," Mr. Cooper replied, much distressed. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

"Nor can I, which worries me, I must confess," Lestrade answered, and sighed. "I have my best people working on it right now, but we have very little to go on, and I don't know how much more we can find out."

"Is there nothing we can do then?" Mr. Cooper asked.

"Well, there might be someone else who can help you," Lestrade replied slowly. "Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

_Seven-o-clock in the morning. Baker Street._

"Mrs. Hudson, are you _absolutely certain_ you can't make her shut up?!" Holmes demanded, looking for cotton he could use to plug his ears.

Little Susan, still in Mrs. Hudson's arms, had been expressing her displeasure for the past ten minutes, and her crying and wailing showed no signs of ceasing, despite the good lady's attempts to calm her.

"Mr. Holmes, I am _not_ a miracle worker!" she snapped. "Why don't you take her, and see if you do any better!"

"I am sure that you are doing all that you can," Watson said, attempting to break up the argument before it could begin. "Holmes, just try to ignore it."

Holmes growled something rude under his breath. It was probably just as well that neither Watson nor Mrs. Hudson did not catch it.

There was a ring at the bell.

"I'll get that," said Watson, rising from his seat.

"I'll go down to my room with the baby," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Wait and see if we need the sitting room first," Watson replied. "I don't want to cause you any more bother than necessary."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," she said.

Watson descended the stairs and opened the door. A young man, his wife and a little boy stood outside the door.

"We're here to see Sherlock Holmes," said the man nervously. "I am David Cooper, and this is my wife Amelia and my son James. My daughter, Susan was kidnapped last night."

"Come in," said Watson, ushering them inside. "I am Dr. Watson. Holmes is upstairs."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Mr. Cooper. "Do you think he can help us?"

"I certainly hope so," Watson replied, leading them up the stairs. "I apologize about the crying child, she was left on our doorstep this morning, with no note or any way to find out where she came from or who brought her here or anything like—"

Mrs. Cooper stopped dead in her tracks and gasped upon seeing the child. "_Susan!_" she exclaimed, sprinting forward and scooping up the child in Mrs. Hudson's arms. "Why, it's a miracle!"

"This is your child?" Holmes asked, looking in surprise from Susan to Mrs. Cooper to Mr. Cooper and then back to Susan.

"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Cooper.

"How did you know to find her here?" the detective asked, staring at her intently.

"We didn't," said Mr. Cooper in an awestruck tone. "We came here to ask for your help finding her."

"Well," said Holmes after a moment, sounding rather amazed himself, "here she is!"

"And we couldn't be more glad," said Mrs. Cooper.

"Me too!" piped up Jamie.

"I'll go inform the police that Susan has been found," said Mr. Cooper. "Let us all thank God for this amazing miracle."

* * *

**A/N: Hooray for happy endings! Special thanks to my mom for coming up with the brilliant idea I used as the inspiration for this story.**


	28. Dec 28

**December 28: Superpowers (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

"How on earth can you know all of that about me, Mr. Holmes!" the man exclaimed. "Upon my word, you must be using some sort of witchcraft, or super powers!"

Holmes gave a short, barking laugh. "I assure you, I have nothing of the kind. Only my mind, I'm afraid. Though, I must admit that some super powers would come in handy every once in a while."

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, just two lines. But the last one was longer, so eh, it averages out, I think.**

**And yay, I'm all caught up finally! *Dances* :D**


	29. Dec 29

**December 29: Lestrade pays a visit, bringing an unusual request. (from KnightFury)**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, is Doctor Watson here?" asked Inspector Lestrade upon entering the sitting room of 221b Baker Street.

"No, not at the moment," replied Holmes. "Why do you ask? I'm sure I can help you, even if he's not here."

Lestrade gave a small chuckle. "I'm not so sure. You see, I came looking for advice."

"What sort of advice?" asked Holmes.

"Well, if you must know, I was planning on proposing to Charlotte on New Year's Eve, and I was going to ask the Doctor if he had any advice. Lord knows he's better with women then either of us will ever be."

"Ah," Holmes replied, frowning. "Well, I'm afraid I'm not going to be of much help to you then. Watson should be back in a couple of hours; come back around four."

Lestrade gave a curt nod. "All right then, I'd better be off." He turned to leave.

"Inspector?" Holmes said.

"Yes?" he asked, turning back.

"I wish you luck with that."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

**A/N: I was planning on making this longer, but I spent my time watching Maverick, and then Captain America. And then the third episode in Joey Graceffa's Storytellers series. And then I got on Tumblr, which sucked away like another two hours of my life so…**

**Yeah.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading, everybody! :)**


	30. Dec 30

**December 30: What if Mary hadn't died? (Book girl fan)**

**A/N: Christmas of 1896. Shameless fluff. :)**

* * *

"Holmes, I can't believe you decided to come!" Watson exclaimed, ushering him inside and taking his coat.

"I wasn't planning on it, and then Mrs. Hudson left for her sister's and I realized that I would have no one to make me Christmas dinner if I did not come here." He grinned. "And also for the company, of course."

Mary chuckled as they entered the dining room. "Mr. Holmes, you are so vain! Admit it, you were just really wanting to spend Christmas with your biggest fans."

Holmes burst out laughing as Watson's two sons, Duncan Sherlock and Henry James ran into the room. Duncan, age five, pushed in front of his three year old brother and ran up to Holmes.

"I'm so glad you came!" exclaimed Duncan. "Can you teach us more Baritsu?!"

"Yeah!" exclaimed Henry, pushing in front of his brother

"Not today, I'm afraid," Holmes replied.

"Awww!" the two boys exclaimed in unison.

"Have you solved any more cases lately?" Henry asked as Duncan elbowed his way in front of him.

"Yes, I've solved a couple," Holmes said, taking a small step backwards as inconspicuously as possible.

"Boys, don't crowd him," Watson said.

They reluctantly drew back a little bit.

"Dinner's almost ready," said Mary from downstairs in the kitchen.

"So you better get to the table, Duncan and Henry!" seven-year-old Susan called.

"She's so bossy," Duncan muttered under his breath.

"Not as bossy as you," Henry replied mischievously, grinning up at his brother.

Duncan aimed an elbow for his ribs which Henry dodged, and the latter ran giggling to the table, pursued by the former.

Watson grabbed his elder son's arm to stop him, and Duncan struggled for a moment, then changed his mind and stuck out his tongue at Henry, who returned the gesture.

"Find your seats, boys," said Watson, fondly but firmly and the boys did so. "You too, Holmes." He gestured to the seat across from the boys' seats.

Holmes snorted at his friend's tone, but sat down. Watson seated himself next to him.

"Thank you very much for coming, my dear fellow," said Watson quietly. "You are like family to us, I hope you know that."

"The pleasure's all mine," Holmes replied. "Merry Christmas, Watson."

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

* * *

**A/N: Watson having two sons that totally hero-worship Holmes was headcanon of mine after I read SIGN and before reading FINA. I'm quite glad I got a chance to write a story with it. :)**


	31. Dec 31

**December 31: Write a story where Holmes and Watson must contend with that newfangled invention, the motorcar. (from Galazy1001D)**

**A/N: Not an expert on old motorcars, so if you are, please suspend your disbelief and enjoy regardless.**

* * *

"I am really unsure about this," Holmes muttered to Watson in the backseat of his client's motor car as they drove back to London from the man's house. (How this came to be is a very long, complicated and tedious story, with which I shall not presume to bore you. Suffice it to say that they were there with good reason, though neither of them had been very keen to trust this motorcar.) Their client, a man by the name of James Benbow, was pouring water into the radiator because the engine was overheating.

"Don't worry about it; it looks like he's got it under control now," Watson replied.

"Ah! There we go, that ought to do it!" said Benbow, putting the lid on his canteen and slamming the hood shut.

Suddenly, the hood flew back up and hit him square on the jaw and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Holmes and Watson leapt out of the car and knelt by his side. Watson checked for a pulse.

"I think he's just been knocked unconscious. Even if he doesn't have a concussion, he will be in no fit condition to drive."

"Well, let's put him in the back," said Holmes. The two of them picked him up and put him carefully in the back seat of the vehicle.

"I'm the doctor, I'll stay with him," said Watson. "You'll have to drive us."

Holmes paused for a moment, then irritably exclaimed, "I am infinitely frustrated that you make perfect sense! Fine, I shall drive us. How hard can it be? Benbow explained it to us."

He climbed into the drivers's seat. "All right, so to get it started, I turn this key." He turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. "And then I have to put it in gear, like this…and that bigger pedal is the brake, and the smaller on is the accelerator, so if I push the accelerator now, we should—"

The car lurched violently forward and then halted.

"—go. Well, a little less pressure then."

"You don't say!" Watson exclaimed.

"Just be quiet and let me focus!" Holmes replied through clenched teeth. "All right then, let us try this again." He pushed gently down on the accelerator and the car slowly moved forward down the road. "Yes! Watson, I'm doing it!"

"Congratulations, Holmes, now focus on your steering or you'll run us off the road!" Watson shouted.

"Right," Holmes replied, sheepishly correcting his direction before they went into the ditch.

* * *

Half an hour later, they reached Baker Street in London.

"Holmes, remind me to never get into a motorcar if you are behind the wheel."

"Come now, Watson! We made it here safely!"

"Well we didn't hit anything, but I nearly had a heart attack during several of those sharp turns of yours!"

"Oh, be quiet, as if _you_ could have done any better in my place."

* * *

**A/N: Heheheh. That was fun.**

**Thank you to everyone who has read—and an even bigger thanks to those who reviewed—my stories this month. And an even bigger thank you to Hades Lord of the Dead for putting together this whole shebang, none of this would be possible without you. :)**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY! :D**


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